


Wreaths of Asphodel

by sunbeamruins



Category: Broadchurch
Genre: F/M, Hardy left to pick up daisy and came right back and now its a few years later, Inspired by Orpheus and Eurydice (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Magical Realism, Post-Season/Series 02, death is nonbinary and has a wife sorry i make the rules here, not quite established relationship but nearly there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:55:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23234356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunbeamruins/pseuds/sunbeamruins
Summary: He’s left her in bad situations before, but this really takes the cake.A re-telling of Orpheus and Eurydice, with a distinctly Broadchurch tint.
Relationships: Alec Hardy/Ellie Miller
Comments: 15
Kudos: 34





	Wreaths of Asphodel

It all happened so fast. Every part of her is screaming that it just wasn't fair. Hardy had survived so much, for him to just die so suddenly was a shock. 

And a car accident, out of everything. 

There was more than just habit that had her pushing him into the passenger seat more often than not. He was (and oh that hurt, thinking of him in the past tense) one of the most cautious drivers she knew. 

It was a quick death, and that was both a small blessing and a mantra Ellie repeats to herself, but it’s little comfort. Just when things had started to settle into a routine between the two of them, feeling out each other’s rhythms and sliding in to fill each other’s cracks, he has to go and die on her. 

She’s lost so many people to different circumstances. 

Danny. ~~Joe.~~ Tom and Beth, for a while. Her mother. Hardy. 

She wasn’t about to let that lie. 

Rage and grief as her fuel, she throws herself into research. Magic is generally frowned upon, and necromancy even more so, but she’d promised him that if he died on her she’d kill him again, and he needed to be alive for that. But everything she came across mainly pertained to raising corpses, and a zombie Hardy was hardly what she was looking for. 

A zombie hardy wouldn’t snore on her couch the late nights he spent over when they worked on a case for longer than expected. He wouldn’t remember how she likes her tea, and leave one sitting on the corner of her desk after he got one for himself. He wouldn’t— she cut that train of thought. It wasn’t helping, and if this worked she wouldn’t have to miss him anymore.

She buries a box with mementos at a crossroads and waits for an entire night, and nothing happens. 

She exhausts all options that seem partially viable, until all that’s left unexplored is an old tome that mentioned bargaining with Death himself. There’s only the vaguest of descriptions of the process, and a partially decayed tale of someone who tried and failed. Along with that, there are riddles on how to enter his domain, and crumbling notes from old scholars on what they thought the missing parts of the story might be and antiquated debates of possible solutions. 

Those riddles become her post-work hobby, maps and pins spread out across a wall as she speculates on where these supposed doors are located. She shoves down the painful memories of the last time she worked like this, the only notes in her own curly handwriting. Every morning she expects to find new post-its marked with the distinct jagged edges of his scrawl, and bites back tears when they’re not there. 

In the end all the clues for the closest entrance point to London. Of bloody course. 

But she’s been so caught up on finding her way in she never stopped to think on what she could possibly bargain with. As time drags on her feet get steadily colder as life starts to settle into place, new people filling up the empty holes his death left behind. 

Ellie Miller is not one to leave a job unfinished, and it’s getting called in to talk about a promotion that pushes her to take the final steps.

She bundles up the kids and sends them over to Beth for the weekend. 

What do you pack to go to the underworld? She throws a general map of london and a tiny one she’s marked up herself with directions to the portal in her bag, along with a few granola bars, and a police pad with what little advice she was able ascertain from the tome. 

One train ride and a few buses later, she’s in the graveyard her investigations have led her to. 

It’s old and uncared for, gravestones crumbling and illegible. More of them are knocked over than not, and there's lichen coating what’s left. There are two gnarled old trees near the center, curving into each other and forming a broken archway. It’s almost too obvious, and she trips and nearly sprains an ankle over one of the broken markers hidden by the overgrown grass as she makes her way over. 

As she approaches two towering double doors appear. 

She lets out a sigh of relief. The story held mention of song, and she’d been worried that she’d have to sing twinkle twinkle at an empty doorway. 

They seem to solidify the closer she gets, and they feel solid enough once she reaches them. The doors are a work of art, solid wood with ornate metalwork depicting all manner of people and animals in various states of decay.

A light push against them gets nothing done. 

She gives them a slightly more forceful push, but they still refuse to budge.

“Well then,” she mutters to herself. That was quite enough of being polite. Taking a deep breath, she musters up her strength before ramming into the doors shoulder first. 

Still nothing.

She lets herself slump down, back leaning against the newest obstacle in her quest.

Hardy would tell her not to give up, that there's always an answer, there’s just something they’re missing. He’s also the reason why she’s here in the first place, so he could bloody well shut up. 

The anger that'd been buried under the sediment of daily life slowly rises its way to the surface. She pushes herself off the ground and turns to face the doors once again. All the rage and sorrow from him leaving her builds and she channels it all at the inanimate objects holding her back.

“Look, I did far too much work to get here for two bloody doors to stop me. There’s someone in there that I need. Magic or not, you’re still wood, and if I have to come back with a bloody flamethrower I will,” she spat at the doors. 

Nothing happens and she fails to choke back the sob, looking to the sky before banging her head against them again. For some reason that’s enough, and they easily yield beneath the unintentional weight she pressed against them. She blinks back her tears, and eases them marginally further open. 

Everything past the doorway is a thick colorless fog, obscuring the world beyond. She fumbles in her bag for a torch, switching it on. 

Moving closer she braces a hand against one of the trees before stepping into the fog. The torchlight hinders more than helps, only giving the dense fog in front of her a light glow. Letting go of her handhold, she stepped further in, mist pressing in at all sides. One careful foot in front of the other, she slowly makes her way forward. About five steps in the fog breaks, revealing an obsidian hallway with steps descending into darkness. It takes her breath away, and she clicks off the torch as everything is clearly visible, despite there being no discernible light source. 

She’s read that this place likes to play tricks on the living, and keeps careful count of every step down. She’s so busy keeping track that when her foot hits soft ground at 104 it takes a second to register. She quickly jots it down in her notebook before looking up.

There are only endless fields of faded wheat stretching out as far as the eye can see, with only a singular building breaking up the horizon. 

Her final destination in view at last. 

She re-adjusts the straps of her bag and sets off. 

It isn’t until the building looks no closer half an hour later that she finally turns around. The steps are nearly out of view, a speck amongst the infinite wheat. 

The full scope of her actions finally hit. There's no guarantee she's getting out of here, let alone getting out with Hardy as well. She might’ve just left Tom and Fred without a mother. Squaring her shoulders, she presses forward. 

It’s the only direction she has left. 

After what feels like hours, and a few empty wrappers shoved back into her bag, the palace is finally close enough for her to start making out details. It’s every inch as ornate as one would expect from the home of an ageless entity, but the monochromatic palette made it hard to appreciate. It looks like it was built for giants.

The entrance steps are guarded by two eight foot greek statues in full battle armor, holding spears. They make no move as she climbs up the four steps to the door, despite her half expecting them to try and stop her. They certainly look life-like enough to be able to do so. 

These doors give her no trouble, and open without so much as a squeak. 

The entrance hallway is slightly furnished, a plush red rug running down the center like a stream of blood. She hesitantly wanders in, peering into any of the open doorways, unsure of what exactly she’s looking for, and cautious enough to know opening closed doors was a mistake. Interestingly one opens up into a lush garden courtyard, plants flourishing in whatever the equivalent to open air is here. But the longer she wanders the more futile the search becomes, where once were rooms clearly purposed now devoid of everything. 

If asking worked once, it just might once again.

“Hello?” she asks. It’s dark and empty. “I’m looking for Death?”

There’s an audible _fwosh_ as a line of sconces light up, leading down a hallway she could swear wasn’t there before. 

The path of eerie blue lights lead her into the palace’s throne room.

There are two thrones, and only the larger central one is occupied. The throne is as cold and dark as the rest of the fortress, threads of silver decorating the dark ebony. It’s occupant is much the same: cold, dark, and barely visible under the cloak they’re wearing. The unoccupied throne is smaller and less threatening, of a lighter wood, with root-like protrusions breaking up the smooth surfaces, and armrests of bare branches, as stripped of leaves as a tree in winter. 

It’s the most human of fears that root her in place, faced with what everyone succumbs to eventually. 

“It seems I have a visitor.” A rasping voice says from under the cloak, gender indeterminable. “It’s been a long time since a mortal has graced these halls.”

Ellie mentally shakes herself free from the spell she was under, and approaches. 

“I’m here for Alec Hardy,” she states, taking a leaf from the dead man’s book, blunt and to the point. 

A rumbling cackle grows, rolling out from the large figure and reverberating through the room. “Is that all?” they ask teasingly. 

She’s so involved in rehearsing her possible arguments in her head, that the question nearly doesn’t register. It leaves her off-balance, but she’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

“No, actually, if I could get Daniel Latimer as well that would be grand.” She’s been selfish enough today. If she could bring Beth her boy back as well she would.

“How about we start you off with one and see how that goes?” Death counters. 

She wasn’t expecting that to work, but she also didn’t really expect to make it this far. All of her past failures had made her wary that this would be one too. And now at the final hour, she’s left with an impossible choice: saving her best friend or her other best friend’s son. 

“If you manage to lead him to the beginning point of your journey without turning back, you will find him returned to you,” Death states.

It seems the decision had been made for her, and has been all along. Any anguish the possibility of a choice caused was nothing more than a temporary amusement. She packs away the anger, and only nods in response to hold back any potential offense.

“Well then, start walking.” If an eyebrow raise could be audible, she’d hear it now. 

Ellie cautiously walks in a large u-turn to head out, and hears a rumbling chuckle as she leaves. 

This time there's no labyrinth, as she exits back into the same blood-red carpeted entrance hall. The same four steps down, and she’s once again in the wheat fields that seem to defy time or distance or both. 

For the first time, the silence is unnerving. It’s nothing like the comfortable quiet that settles between her and Hardy whenever the conversation peters out, and she doesn’t quite know what to do.

“I know you claim to hate this parka but at least it’ll make it easier for you to follow me,” she says, feeling a bit ridiculous. “Don’t think I never overheard the traffic cone comments, this better end them for good.”

There’s only silence where there would usually be a monosyllabic response or grunt. 

It’s bad, but it’s not worse. 

She continues chattering away, rambling her way through all the major news he’s missed. And if she catches herself waiting for a response, well, she tries to ignore it and continue on. It doesn’t take long to exhaust that reserve, and she switches to small town gossip, well aware he’d hate it.

“You know you were right. I did get offered your job. Told Elaine I didn’t want it. That was a few days ago, actually. I doubt they’ve got anyone else lined up, as you were a bit of an unexpected surprise to the department yourself. So at least you’ve got your job to go back to.”

A few more steps. She wants to know how far she’s managed to get from the palace, but that meant turning back, and she knew if she tried to gradually turn here, she’d lose all sense of direction and wander forever. So she continues forward, quiet faith that she’s making progress.

“Dirty Brian got engaged. Still don't know what to think of that. I mean I wished him luck but it still seems a bit odd. Wouldn’t think he put any stock in marriage. But what do we know, eh? Neither of us made particularly bright choices in that department. Don’t know who I’d be without Tom and Fred, though.” She frowned. “Daisy didn’t take it well. She took some time off from uni to come for the funeral. If she wasn’t living there I bet there would've been a big fight with Tess about going back to hers, but that’s been delayed until summer break.”

God, it was a bit grim to tell someone how their kid was dealing with their death. But there, just a few yards off, were the familiar black steps. Only the first few were visible, fading into the ether as they reached upwards, and what could be seen was easily obscured by the tall plants. 

She broke out into a run, unwilling to blink and give them an opportunity to disappear. Once there she had to stop herself from turning around to see if he had kept up. He had longer legs anyway, she reasoned, it’d be easy enough for him to keep pace.

She waited a few moments anyway.

She pulled out her notebook, reminding herself of the number of stairs, before making her way up. Each step is meticulously counted out loud as it is taken, subverting any perception tricks like those present in the field and forcing them to work properly. A good thing too, because even with the pacemaker, Hardy still got too easily winded for her liking. Endless fields were enough, endless stairs would’ve been overkill. 

With a triumphant “104!” she’s back at the landing again. The swirling fog is there, and it’s at this point that she stops.  
  
Somehow she just knows, deep within her bones, that as soon as she leaves she’s never going to be able to come back, not until she’s dead as well. The worry she’s been suppressing, that this might all just be a trick and no one is behind her, hits her at full force and makes her weep, but still she refuses the temptation to check.

Then, ever so gently, the ghost of a comforting hand rests itself on her shoulder, and it’s so maddeningly Hardy she just wants to turn around and bury herself in his arms, but she doesn't trust herself not to look, even at that hand, so she just clenches her eyes shut until it’s gone. She can feel something within her shatter, and as she steps through the fog she knows the rest of the journey will be done in silence. 

She can’t turn to see, but she knows if she looks back the door would be gone. Instead, she carefully picks her way through the rubble of the graveyard, and back out into the real world. 

Somehow it gets harder. Every bump on the crowded streets is forcibly ignored, and elbows in her back on buses are silently bared. She cautiously plans her exits and entrances from public transit, ensuring that she never hits some sort of dead end. 

She doesn’t know if mirrors count as looking back, and the world is littered with reflective surfaces. Her feet become the safest spot to rest her eyes. 

She has no idea how much time has passed. The lack of missing calls from Beth is enough to assure her it’s been less than two days, and when she finally glances at the date she’d only been gone a few hours. The amount of empty wrappers in her bag imply differently, but there’s a more pressing question that she’s working on the answer to. 

Driving home feels like tempting fate, and she’s walked so far the trip from the train station home is nothing. The sun’s warmth is more than welcome, and the colors seem brighter free from the London smog. A tiny smile grows on her face. She loves it here. It was why she chose to stay, even after everything that’s happened.

The fields change to streets turn to houses. 

Her house.

The house she’s reclaimed as her own. 

She enters, and winds up standing in her living room unsure of what to do. The house is just as eerily quiet as the underworld had been right after she’d started to head back, missing all of the usual bustle of life. 

She breathes. 

The marked up wall stares back.

She contemplates where she can find boxes to pack it all up now that it’s done, one way or the other. 

She knows what she should really do, but her doubt is strong. Was the hand at the gate a reassurance, or a final farewell? A tear slips free as she sways and recalls the moment, burning it into her memory.

It almost feels real.

The hand that reaches out turns her around and wraps her into a warm embrace, but she’s closed her eyes at that first touch, paranoid about losing him again. She can’t help but grab him back, pulling his stupid lanky frame against her, and he feels so alive, chest rising and falling between her arms, damaged heart beating against her breast. When she finally opens her eyes he’s there, tall and soft with a look of awe in his eye and a smile splitting his face. 

“Hi” is all he manages to croak out before she shuts him up with her mouth, trying to convey _I need you, I missed you, I love you_ all in a kiss. And it works, if his response once they break is anything to go by.

“I love you too,” he breaths out, softly against her lips, barely audible.

“Knob,” she replies, voice cracking from emotion as she pulls him back to her once again. 

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: i did not plan to write this fic. I woke up and my brain was like… this. Do it.  
> It’s also totally not my usual style so uh.. let me know if it worked?  
> As usual, you can find me on [tumblr](https://sunbeamruins.tumblr.com/)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Crowned With Lilies](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23292472) by [sunbeamruins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunbeamruins/pseuds/sunbeamruins)




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